A/N. Let it be Casey, let it be Alex, let it be whoever you like. Just don't get mad at me for a story that's barely fanfiction. I know, I know, I'm rather grouchy in my Author's Notes now, aren't I? Well, I've slept maybe five hours in the past two days, and as tired as I am I just can't seem to doze off. I'll be nicer in future A/Ns, I promise.

Disclaimer: Two words. Dick Wolf's.

I love being in court.

Before the gawkers come, and the bailiffs and the drama of the defendants. Before the flurry of the clerk's busy shorthand, before the thumping of the judge's gavel. Before the hisses of the defense and the sniffles of the witnesses and the cacophony of the jury.

Before anyone even utters a word.

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I stroll through the room, lingering among the benches. I touch the smooth, honey colored wood. It's warm, the grain thick. I can see the hundreds ofspectators who have occupied these benches. I hear their conjectural whispers, their grouchy mutterings, their sighs of relief. I smile, moving through the waist-high swinging doors and towards the rest of the courtroom.

I let my fingertips rove over the prosecutor's chair. It's soft, a deep green velvet. I can sense the remnants of a smug confidence, a gloating smile. My fingers skip over the rings that generations of coffee mugs have made on the oak surface: sleepless nights, last minute strategies, and the promise of a strong (if brief) period of wakefulness.

My legs carry me to the defendant's table. Fear. I can smell it, a sharp tang of sweat and the mothball scent of some man's Sunday best, taken from its long forgotten home in the back of a closet to be pulled on once again, the seams and buttons straining against the extra ten pounds that weren't there five years ago. Confusion, terror, anger; the emotions flood into me, all underlain with a subtle scent. It takes me a moment to identify the hot, metallic tang, but when I do my lip curls up in disgust. Another guilty man, I think. Another child's blood on someone's hands.

I run my hands across the edge of the judge's desk. I can feel the razor sharp line that we so dangerously dance upon each day, the line which our judges police. There is a wary attentiveness here, a resolve to keep the courtroom just and fair, and a measuring gaze.

I move towards the witness's stand. It's a frightening place to be, admittedly. There are those who are accustomed to such things, the police officers and scientists who can calmly assume this seat. Then there are those who are new, who testify against their rapists or kidnappers or abusers. There's a fear here, yes, but also a stony determination for justice, and for the punishment that their opponent so rightly deserves.

I reach the jury booth. Stepping inside, I walk along the double row of chairs. There's an attentive air here too, but this one is sharper. They hold men's' lives in their hands, Imuse.They don't' take that power lightly. They're weary, and homesick. They've been away from their families for weeks, confined to the courthouse and then their hotel rooms. I can tell that they want it to be over. They feel chalky, like aspirin, but though their heads pound, they don't let their attention stray. It's too important a time to be worrying about head pains.

I leave the jurors' box and return to the prosecutor's table where I let myself fall into the plush seat. I survey the room around me, golden and warm with sun. I let the hidden noise in the room wash over me, listening to the rise and fall of the voices that have occupied this room, long gone but never forgotten. I smile to myself as I unclip my briefcase, removing a stack of folders and letting the courtroom's noise fade back into an easy silence.

This is my world, I think. And I fit perfectly.